Compromise
by Bad Ronald
Summary: The adventures of Agent Hunk in Raccoon City set a bit later than usual. He'll be running into some familiar faces. Question is, will he categorize them as threats, or allies? COMPLETED. Read and Review!
1. Monster To Monster

C o m p r o m i s e

A Resident Evil 2 Story.

Jeremy Urbano Rosete (Bad Ronald)

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**1. Monster to Monster.**

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**The mesh gratings were a terrible place to stray near in a damp sewer, especially in this sort of situation. It seemed that the rest of the team didn't happen take this into account, because if they did, the promising upstart operative named Robertson wouldn't have been screaming in agony and pain right about now. The other Umbrella Special Forces Unit operatives stepped back in surprise as their teammate was lifted- almost gently- into the air. Then surprise changed into horror as their eyes stared at the thing lifting Robertson up… a pulsing, meaty, impossibly muscular arm jutting out from the broken wall grating. The arm was as thick as an oak tree trunk and was rife with a slithery mass of quivering blue veins.

It didn't take the operatives very long to see that their standard, scientifically-engineered Umbrella Corporations Tactical Kevlar and Steel-Mesh Mixture Body Armor would be just as efficient as a flyswatter against this new arrival.

Aside from the obvious, there was something very wrong with the situation.

The great white twitching sharp bones protruding from Robertson's back turned out to be much larger than the usual human ribs. Actually, they weren't bones at all. They were immense ivory claws of the-

A rattling sound, gurgling frantically from the dying operative's throat, shocked the rest into action.

Three of them snapped up their assault rifles, Umbrella standard MP5A2s, and drummed out an orchestra of 9 x 19 mm Luger/Parabellum rounds. The guns burst in the night, briefly illuminating the murky darkness in staccato flashes of machine-gun fire, trailed by the stinging stench of cordite and blood.

The filters of their gas masks blocked out the smell.

The three operatives stumbled backwards as the rest of the arm crashed through the wall, obliterating Robertson into a stringy mess. For a moment, the darkness encompassed everything.

One glowing red eye fixed upon them with a malevolent gaze. Heavy breathing came from it, the sort that didn't belong in the world. The Umbrella operatives stared back with their own variant of red, through the lenses of their gas masks. A guttural sound hissed out from the giant creature in the dark.

They switched to desperate measures as the monster stood to full height, over 10 feet tall, looming over the operatives. One operative snatched out a flash-bang grenade. Another yanked back at the shotgun shell attachment under his assault rifle, cocking it ready. The third snapped on the night vision scope on his rifle, seeing the monster clearly in all its ugly glory.

The agents were extremely well-trained. But they weren't as trained as the last of them- the fourth agent- who stood behind, watching calmly. His breathing, sifting through the filter in his gas mask, was calm and controlled; though his heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings. He was aiming his rifle at the monster like the rest, with a small divergence. While the rest were anxiously clutching their rifles and shaking in involuntary fear, the fourth operative was regarding the monster with indifference.

The men had been trained very well, yes, but that was never enough. In the experiences of the fourth agent, it never would be. He knew what would happen next: It was in the tactical offense manual which he so despised: Frontal offense B- A flash, the rush-ambush, and the mess to clean up afterwards. However, it would be a different kind of mess this time.

Sure enough, the first one threw the flash-bang and turned away, switching his rifle to shotgun shell attachment. He was mimicked by the other two, shielding their eyes with their arms, each of them poised to rush the monster as soon as the white flash faded. Still aiming steadily, the last of them merely closed his eyes. The monster's furious roar drowned out the clapping sound of the blast.

When the fourth operative opened his eyes, he saw to no surprise that the grenade thrower was already pasted on the wall. His head – or what was left of it- was smeared against the ceiling like a chunk of vertical road kill. Seeing this, the other two turned tail and ran towards him.

And then there were three.

"Mr. Death!" One of them screamed.

They reached him.

The fourth- now the third- Agent Hunk, also named "Mr. Death", steeled his grip around his rifle to steady his aim. He took deep breaths, puckering his mouth against the rubber mask. His heartbeat needed to be brought down to control or it would wreck havoc on his aiming. The two took position besides him pointed their guns at the creature, copying Hunk just as they copied the deceased grenade thrower. The monster made a threatening advance towards them.

Hunk didn't fire.

Nervous glances were shared between the two agents, past Hunk's shoulder. The monster made a bellowing, screeching roar again, and the two other operatives started to back away.

Hunk scrutinized the monster slowly making its way towards him. William Birkin, formerly a brilliant scientist who was advancing Umbrella's research development ranks at blinding speed. It was no longer William Birkin the scientist anymore, instead, it was William Birkin, a hulking, grotesque, hideous curiosity of Umbrella's brand of science. The right side of its face was shifting backwards into its neck, leaving only one glowing-red eye. Its right arm was a huge, pulsating thing that resembled a large broken elongated tree trunk with blood-stained claws. It flexed, twitched with giddy anticipation.

The G-Virus. Birkin's greatest lifetime-to-death achievement.

Hunk had been given the basic briefing before being sent to this mission: William Birkin had constructed a virus was more powerful than the one currently residing in each zombie. From the looks for it, the scientist had injected himself with his own project.

"Agent Hunk!"

How positively irritating.

Hunk could tell that the two were behind him now, showcasing the very reason why he hated working with teams. Trust for each man was lacking, rendering the entire probability of team structure useless. Teamwork was just something Hunk didn't believe in. Anyone who had to depend on others for success was just a weak person climbing shoulders and browning his nose on his way to success. As the monster started to close the gap between them, Hunk could only think, _'Where?'_

'_The face?'_

'_The chest?'_

Everything had a weakness. Hunk knew this. Everything in the world except Hunk himself had some sort of weakness which he could always exploit. He just had to find it before it was too late.

'_Where?'_

Hearing the rapid footsteps recede behind him, he knew the two operatives had run off and left him behind. It was just him and the monster, who was within running distance. The Birkin monster's arm pumped violently again. The flap of skin covering its shoulder gently parted to reveal a great big disgusting eyeball that swiveled towards Hunk, glaring at him.

'_There.'_

Then the giant eyeball stopped glaring and shrank back in its socket, leaking blood to the floor as it was suddenly punctured with a bullet courtesy of Hunk's rifle. Howling terrifically in fury and pain, the monster slammed to the wall to its right, attempting to rub out the pain. Hunk shot again and the monster, distracted as it was, made a weak swipe, which Hunk easily avoided. The Umbrella operative took out a flash-bang grenade and threw it at the eyeball.

The blast was immediate, faster than he expected, and he was blinded momentarily. Shaking his head quickly to dissipate the white haze, he looked.

Dazed, the freak of nature swaggered, moving silently among the sewer waters. It didn't seem to see him. The fourth operative started to advance carefully when a scream distracted him. It sounded like a young girl, from somewhere above the sewers. He looked back, but it was too late, he was knocked off his feet and sailed through the air, making a less-than-graceful landing into a barred pipe entrance. The monster hesitantly sniffed and looked away from him, having lost interest in its opponent. Looking up at the ceiling, it opened its mouth and made one more shriek, one that sounded ridiculously like someone's name, before lumbering away, leaving Hunk to struggle with his slipping consciousness.

**_"__SSSSHHHEEE-RRRRAAA-HHEEEEEE!"_**

Hunk had only a second to recognize the monster's cry as a mangled version of Birkin's daughter's name, Sherry.

Sherry Birkin.

So the little Birkin daughter was its target.

Hunk slumped to the ground, losing his internal battle. He slipped into a deep sleep, into unconsciousness.

Into the dark.

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**Notes: **It's been a while since I've written an RE story, much less posted in All I have to say is the usual, I played through RE2, Last Survivor Mode, and wondered what Hunk would've done if he ran into one of the main characters. I know about the time-line, I know he was rushing through the Racoon City sewers a day before Leon and Claire arrived, but this idea was already drilled in my head and I just wanted to write something- ANYTHING. 

So any of you time-line purists... bugger off. Besides, Hunk is pretty fun to write about, and hopefully, to read about, too.


	2. Come Into My Web

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2. Come Into My Web.

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**

He woke.

Hunk had trained himself for years to sleep lightly for emergency scramble missions. When he slept, he rarely dreamed. The way he slept was strangely similar to a Zen fashion, it was like being in a pitch-black room with nobody but himself to depend on. On those rare occasions when he dreamed, it was usually of a little boy lacking the usual childlike innocence, looking up at his stone-faced father, immaculately dressed in a suit. The father never tilted his head to look down at the boy. He merely directed his eyes downwards, regarding his child.

* * *

"_Do you want my help?" The father would always say._

"_No." The boy would always say._

"_Good." The father would say.

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_

And Hunk would wake up.

He checked his inventory: His gas mask filter had no breaks. His rifle, after being dry-fired, proved to be in excellent working condition. His pouch held two machine-gun clips, three variant grenades, and one tactical knife reserved for close quarters combat.

Hunk stood, checking his watch. The Umbrella chopper evac was due on the helipad on the police station in thirty minutes. That was more time than Hunk needed to find the G-virus and get out of there- he was confident in his abilities to be sure enough of that. Quickly making his way down the sewer corridors, double-time, he ignored the zombies that started to shuffle out of the water. When one of the zombies rose out of the water just a few feet in front of him, it sniffed his scent and turned instantly, groaning for him. Hunk stomped it back into the water. He felt a satisfying crunch beneath the sole of his leather boots before moving on. The wails of the dead echoed behind him and he shook off the odd, uncomfortable feeling that they may have been mourning their recent dead.

Reaching the stairs, he darted into the entrance, observing carefully that the sewer light could not reach these walls. The walls were grimy, dark, and damp, resembling naturally-formed rocks rather than cemented sewer shaping. Taking a closer look, the agent realized that these 'rocks' were stacked forms of countless human skulls, whittled to the bone and flattened to the wall, side-by-side. The skulls, bones, and decaying flesh encompassed the entire hallway entrance, glued to the walls by some sort of adhesive… or to be more precise, webbed to the walls.

He felt that it was appropriate, somehow, for such a creature to fashion a place like this.

Ah. Here it was now. A gentle thudding sound echoed. Hunk waded through the water as the thing rounded the corner to peer at him. It was a tarantula, containing all the correct anatomy of one, if one could be expanded to such massive proportions. It was as big as a medium-sized boar and just as thick, no doubt plump from its endless supply of meals. And speaking of meals…

The pinchers in its maw quivered in anticipation as each of its eight eyes locked on him. Hunk knew if he was quick enough in the water, he could just simply pass it. It was a slow, mindless thing like the zombies and he had nothing to worry from it.

It suddenly leapt bodily to the other wall, latching on and silently regarding him with several gleaming black pupils. An audible, almost mechanical, clacking sound could be heard as it rapidly opened and closed its pinchers in the fashion of a playful dog, one about to tear apart a newborn kitten.

Huh. This was new.

The agent observed that it had just scrambled faster than it should've been able to. It had improved, somehow. Launching itself straight towards him, a glistening string trailing behind its fantastically bizarre bottom, Hunk thrust it away with the butt of his rifle. The giant spider skittered on the walls and Hunk could see for himself that it wasn't just more mobile than the usual giant spider: it was leaner, sleeker, an evolved variant. The hairs encompassing its body and legs were matted down in curious swathes, instead of sticking out in thick grey tufts like the previous others he had encountered. Hunk recalled the weight that had pressed against him before he had batted it away. Seemed it was heavier too.

He turned and kept moving towards the exit, watching calmly as it sank into the water. The rippling water suddenly parted, dipping towards him.

The spider could swim.

The Umbrella operative started to backpedal, figuring out that this was a different breed of infected spider; a faster descendant from the lumbering giants he ran into on past missions. Agent Hunk slung the rifle around his waist and started to slog out of the water, because as he got sure footing, he would be able to handle himself. Lifting himself out of the water, he turned and waited for it to emerge. It did emerge, faster than he expected, and in a flourish. Launching itself to him once again, it crashed into him, the large spindly legs grappling his torso. Hunk tried to push it back, but he felt it squeezing down on him, choking him, trying to turn him into its vulnerable bitch fly, and in its eagerness, it forgot one thing. Flies didn't have knives.

With the same merciless precision he used to dispatch the monster, he slowly pressed his knife into its abdomen, down to the hilt, slicing downwards easily. The death-squeeze let up slightly, giving Hunk a chance to heave it away. It landed on the floor and started to upright itself, rearing on its bleeding haunches to leap and punish its troublesome prey. Instead, it sank to the floor as Hunk plugged it once between its pinchers with his rifle.

Hunk didn't bother to look back at his deceased quarry when climbing up the ladder into the basement garage of a section of the police station, or more importantly, the K-9 Unit holding pound. He'd have to make it past the parking lot and up the police department for the chopper evac. The parking lot was easy enough- the dogs were nothing but target practice- but the lickers prowling the police station courtyards proved more formidable than the dogs. Unfortunately, they were still mere bullet fodder.

Finishing off the last licker, Hunk checked his position, mentally recalling the evac location. He had to find the G-Virus sample and quickly. It was now down to ten minutes. He started forward yet another hallway when he heard the quick footsteps of a running human, straight ahead to his position. His machine gun at the ready, he stood, waiting for the person to come running to view. Ragged breathing could be heard even from this distance. And when she stumbled into his view, Agent Hunk could hardly believe his luck.

The little blonde girl, clad in the skirt and dress of a private middle-school uniform, didn't see him at first. He was hidden in the shadows. When she came near and saw the red-tinted goggles of his gas mask, she skidded in her tracks. They stood, observing each other for a moment. Her eyes were filled with the usual terror. She turned to run and Hunk slipped the machine gun back around his waist, sprinting towards the frantic child. He grabbed her easily enough, yanking her backwards and ignoring her cries of protest as he spun her around. Pinning her to the wall, he then stopped to listen. The girl jumped as a shrieking monstrous roar was heard nearby.

The G-Virus carrier.

The G-Virus sample.

_**"SSSSHHHEEE-RRRRAAA-HHEEEEEE!"**_

The girl squirmed in his grip. "Please." She said, blubbering like a newborn puppy, "P-please, let me go, you have to let me go."

Hunk tilted his head, a questioning gesture.

"The monster's looking for me," she said, "But you'll die if it comes here! Please!"

Hunk said, "Sherry Birkin, I presume."

The girl's large eyes widened considerably larger at the toneless, cold quality of his voice. Her struggles to scream went unnoticed behind one gloved hand as he dragged her back into the darkness.

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**Notes: **Wow, am I a little drunk? I'm happy to say that this story isn't that hard to write! They say that all writers, even the aspiring ones and the shitty ones and the really good ones, drink the booze heavily. 

_(Buuuuuurrrrrrrrp)_

I think they may be right. And I think it's not healthy to down 5 glasses of Everclear at one point. Whee. Yes, sir, I'd like some more of that sweet, sweet clear.

Anyway, this chapter's good! Not only do you get to read about our favorite gas mask abuser and his lovable exploits in his virtual classroom: "How To Kick Ass And Look Awesome Doing It", but you also get a little peek of his history, something secret and taboo, so secret, Hunk himself refuses to even acknowledge it. Ooh!

I'll have the third chapter up and ready soon, and don't worry, folks, now that I've found the magic of liquor and its amazing secret tendencies of turning me into a mighty drunken power writer, this story will not die off alone into unfinished story heaven!

Till next chapter.

-Jeremy (Ronald)


	3. Wolf

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3. Wolf.

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**

Claire Redfield sprinted around the corner and frantically cleared the room, gritting her teeth as she saw that it was completely void of people. The girl had run away and Chief Irons had disappeared, along with that dead body on his desk. Well, good riddance to _that _creep. She shivered as she realized that Irons was probably the one who took the body. She never wanted to see the likes of him again. But that girl, Sherry Birkin. She had run past here. What if…

A booming roar trumpeted through the shuddering halls of the police station, startling her enough to bring up her gun. It was the same roar that frightened Sherry out of her wits, propelling her into running away. The monster that she insisted was looking for her. A monster looking for only one victim, was that even possible? Standing here and thinking wasn't going to help matters, Claire realized. Sherry had to be found before anything terrible could happen to her. Claire gritted her teeth, she had to find her!

Claire exited the room, taking a deep breath before she went out into the hallway. She hated this place. How was her brother able to keep his sanity working in this place? She half-expected whenever her brother had to go to the bathroom, he was probably required to solve one of the confusing puzzle mechanisms concerning a weird statue or one of those creepy paintings. And not to mention the official station maps. The map pamphlets of the entire police station, located next to the computer on the front desk down at the lobby, were a complete joke. So far, Claire had found more than three hidden rooms not listed on the map, all of which contained one of Umbrella's party surprises in the form of groaning flesh-eating monsters, and she was disinclined to believe that the map could outline every room with a possibility of safety. She'd probably get even more lost using the damn thing. And there was that cop, Leon. She felt a lot more safer when he was around and wished he could help out with her search for Sherry. If only she could fish a couple of walkie-talkies or something, one would think that a damned police station would carry a set-

A scream. That was Sherry, that was most definitely Sherry. Breaking out in a dead sprint, Claire rounded the hallways to that creepy place with the constantly creaking wood, and saw two red-tinted circles glaring out at her from the darkness. Instinctively, Claire brought up her gun. She pointed it at him, and when her eyes quickly conformed to the darkness, she could see that she was facing some kind of military man, a SWAT person from the looks of it. He was wearing a freakish gas-mask and black tactical gear. Maybe one of the S.T.A.R.S.?

Elated, she put down her gun, and said, "Excuse me. Excuse me!"

Then she saw Sherry Birkin struggling in his grip, the man literally dragging her around.

"Shit!" Claire said.

Instantly, her pistol was leveled back towards the middle of his red lenses. She heard an audible click trail along her smooth movement. He was nonchalantly aiming his machine gun towards her, leveled from the hip. Pulling the girl closer, he wrapped his arm around her neck and yanked her up towards him. Sherry gave Claire a look of desperation as . Claire could barely make out a patch on the man's shoulder, but she knew what it was and she scowled when she realized what it meant.

The infamous red-and-white Umbrella logo.

An Umbrella agent. An honest-to-God Umbrella agent.

Claire cocked back the hammer on her gun.

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**Notes:** Hence, the subsequent hangover, which SUCKS. Ow. Anyway, this is a pretty short chapter, practically a blurb. My apologies. To make up for this, I'll be uploading the next one painfully soon. Until then, my hangover will soon be followed up by a madness of sanguinary proportions. 

Please, please, please, just review. Read and review. I'd like to know what people are thinking about this as they read it. Is it good enough to continue? Does it suck shit? Just tell me and I'll listen.

I don't want to be that yapping voice in the wind, after all.

Just tell me.

-Jeremy (Ronald)


	4. Negotiations

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4. Negotiations.

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**

The Umbrella agent's blank gaze lowered with an eerie glare. The red color of his goggles glinted from the dim lighting as he held Sherry closer. The girl cried out in pain, and Claire tensed, feeling herself on the verge of panic. Her brother had taught- and warned her- that anyone trained in the military would also be most likely to use pressure-points in their choke holds in subduing their captives… could he doing the same thing to Sherry?

Claire had to be discreet.

"Please," Claire said, stepping forward and hazarding the situation. "Please, she's just a kid. Why don't you just let her go?"

The Umbrella agent remained silent.

Claire had the disturbing feeling that he was in a hurry and that he might be close to shooting her dead just to get on with it. She lowered her gun in a gesture of temporary peace to placate him, but he didn't do the same. Chills crept down her arms; this guy seriously disturbed her to the third degree. The mask shrouding his face lent to the emotionless, cold visage of his demeanor more than she would've thought possible. No wonder young Sherry looked so terrified in his grasp! He seemed to lack all the emotion needed to characterize a human. Peering at him, Claire took the chance to take in every detail, starting from his gas mask down to the pattern of his BDU belt webbings. Along with the Umbrella logo on his shoulder pads and helmet, he also had a nametag that simply said, 'HUNK'.

"She's just a kid," Claire said. Although she knew she had to keep control of her emotions, she just didn't care right now. She didn't have time for this! This agent, this Umbrella Agent, Hunk was taking a little girl hostage in the middle of a situation where hostages weren't needed! "What do you want from her?"

The agent tilted his head, giving Claire the only evidence that he even heard her. Then his gun aimed a little bit higher, to prepare for recoil. He apparently wouldn't give her the chance. Claire's eyes widened, there was no time for her to-

But before Hunk could fire off a shot, Sherry squirmed in his arms, and screamed, "NO!"

She kicked and raved, squirming like a wet fish, forcing Hunk to drag her back quickly, lowering his gun. Claire had hers aimed and cocked before he subdued Sherry down back under his control. Watching, Claire seethed at him, the pistol in her hands shivering slightly. Hunk obviously didn't know how important Sherry was to her, but she'd make him know it. Deftly cocking back the ring hammer, her finger slipped inside the trigger guard and touched the trigger.

Hunk spoke. The slight mechanical grating in his tone made her wince.

"I need this girl."

Claire's response was immediate. "Her name is Sherry Birkin!"

She knew, from some of her college psychology classes, of a certain tactic that most killers would use to distance themselves from acknowledging the humanity of their victims, called _'subject dissonance'_; thinking of them as a mere subject rather than a human being, making them easier to kill. The toneless and casual way Hunk referred to Sherry sent chills up Claire's spine, so she had to repeat, "Her name is Sherry Birkin. She's my friend."

"I know her name." Hunk said. "And I don't care if she's your friend, civilian. She's not mine."

"Then why do you need her?"

Hunk didn't reply, opting to move to strike her down with his machine gun instead. Sherry kicked out and screamed even harder, despite the choke hold, and the operative hefted her up into the air, forcing her to stop.

Realizing that Sherry was monitoring the Umbrella agent and moving to escape every time Hunk tried to do something to kill Claire, Claire said, "Sherry- honey, please don't move- you don't need to do anything. And you! Answer me."

Hunk obviously didn't want to play along. Sherry, ignoring the pony-tailed woman's protests, strained against his grip, and the agent relented a bit. "You don't need to know."

"Yes I do!" Claire said. She was becoming irate at his curt responses.

"Look," she said, visibly forcing herself to calm down. "Please. Just tell me what you need from her. We don't need to do anything rash, okay?"

There was a hiss of disdain from his gas mask. "I won't indulge you in amateurish negotiations. I'll explain this to you only once, civilian. This girl is vital to the completion of my mission. Any obstacles are to be put down. You're in my way. Move."

She didn't move.

"You fucking asshole, Sherry's not a thing! That's my friend you're holding there, and I don't care if she's not your friend, she's mine! If you hurt her, I am going to kill you. I am going to _kill_ you."

Hunk didn't seem to be bothered by her threat, although, Claire could see, something else was already troubling him.

The Umbrella agent moved softly, and for a second, Claire thought he was going to try killing her again. She had a feeling that if he did it now, Sherry would be helpless to stop it. But he stayed on the trigger and asked, not without a tinge of incredulity in his voice, "Why?"

"Why, what?" Claire asked, edging closer. She might have a chance.

In the darkness, Hunk was contemplating a word that she kept blurting out.

"Why is she your friend, civilian? You're so willing to die for the child, yet she doesn't concern you, nor your survival, in any way. Why would you die for such a hindrance?"

Claire was stunned at his barrage of questions. She didn't know how to answer. Looking down at Sherry, the girl stared back at Claire, determined not to show any more fear. Hunk watched the pony-tailed woman.

"Tell me, civilian."

Understanding maybe just a bit, Claire narrowed her eyes

"Do you have any friends?" She said.

Hunk merely watched. His grip on Sherry tightened slightly. Claire moved closer. She asked again:

"Any at all?"

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**Notes: **Another blurb of a chapter, but I've got a review! Of course, Yuki, hangovers do indeed suck, but the literary freedom to write all sorts of amazing stories in alcohol-induced throes are quite awesome... though I don't recommend it for _every_ writer. Anyway, more Hunkage. I always imagined Hunk to be a sort of loner-type, the 'wolf' of the group, so to speak, since he's probaby jaded from all the dying teammates around him. 

I haven't seen many good fictions about Hunk lately, and the ones I have seen had him with the personality of a jock, spouting out things like _"y__our piece of meat is here"_ (I'm not lying), or being a Chris-type character with the gung-ho attitude, and so on and so on. Although some are good readings, I can't really envision Hunk in any of those roles, I'm sorry to say, and it dampens my enjoyment of the story a bit.

Which is why I wrote this, because I want to try and see what kind of character I can forge out of Hunk while sticking with the personality he seems to have in the games, and I hope people will continue to do the same without veering to extremes such as football jock Hunk.

Thanks for reviewing, man.

-Jeremy (Ronald)


	5. Curse

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5. Curse

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**

"_Surprise, surprise."_

"_Damn!"

* * *

_

Hunk was confused as he thought over the civilian's question. Friends? His whole life and he still couldn't fathom the meaning of the word. Friends.

Or did she mean teammates? The same flimsy excuse for backup that always ended up either abandoning him or dying and slowing him down?

_

* * *

"Pay up, fucker. Told you I was right."_

_"Fine. Shit. I'll pay you when we get back."

* * *

_

Hunk never failed in his missions, yet every single one of his teammates always had. During his very first mission in the Umbrella Cleaning Squad, everyone had died and he was the only one on the chopper on the way back home. When he was flown back to headquarters, all he could think about was the next mission. He didn't even spare a thought for his teammates. He couldn't. If he did, he'd end up like them.

Mere fodder. Only corpses: Dead; Forgotten; Failures.

_

* * *

"And you! You're a pretty heartless bastard, aren't ya, Mr. Death?"_

_"Heartless? Try nonrefundable. I just lost 500 bucks on the guy. Sorry, Mr. Death. But I honestly thought someone would be able to come back with you."_

_"You had to admit. The last team they gave you had some really drilled guys. I see you still haven't shaken that curse, though."

* * *

_

Curse? What curse?

_

* * *

"You don't know? It's why you're still alive. The curse of being the last survivor. Because after surviving, all you've got to look forward to is surviving the next. And the next, and the next, until you just die, I guess."_

_"No. I don't think he has to worry about that."_

_"He doesn't?"_

_"No. He's Mr. Death, he's already dead inside, just like the rest of them. He just doesn't know it."_

_"Amen to that, brother."_

_"Amen."

* * *

_

So that's what it was, then. He could understand a bit, watching this pony-tailed woman clumsily negotiate for the life of her small friend. Mouth moving, eyes holding his gaze without quiver, she asked him a question.

His mind immediately went through rigorous internal searching for the answer to her question, simple but so maddingly complex at the same time, "Do you have any friends?"

Friends.

It chewed over in his mind, the meaning of the word- the definition- the ludicrous idea of other people being worthy of your trust or your past… the terrifying notion of letting them _know_ you. Someone who could tell how Hunk was feeling, someone who could _know_ how he was feeling, would surely never be categorized as a friend. No, if such a person existed, he or she would be recognized as a highly dangerous threat to be put down, which he would do with no exception.

On the contrary, according to the official definition, friends could also mean associates. Acquaintances, partners. Or teammates. So if Hunk did indeed have any friends, then that meant…

"They're dead," Hunk said.

Surely, the way he delivered his answer wasn't tempered with any kind of emotion, but the way the civilian creased her brow nagged at him. The way she frowned, a sad frown with great weariness, caused him to feel a tinge of regret for his answer. The Umbrella agent did not like this feeling. At all.

So he said, once more, "They're all dead."

He detested how soft his voice sounded now.

Even the little girl, Sherry, seemed to stop struggling to take pity on him. She was looking up at him and Hunk did not look down to her.

"I'm sorry," Sherry Birkin whispered.

"Quiet." Hunk snapped.

Claire Redfield inched closer.

He said, "It doesn't matter."

Never in his professional, nor personal life, had he been pitied, and he wouldn't start now, especially not from a little girl nor a civilian. After a moment, Claire lowered her gun and Hunk didn't. She stood there- a perfect target- this impediment to his mission.

Right now, he could just relieve his mission burden of her just as easily as he could choke the little girl to death. He could just kill the civilian and drag the girl to the heliport as prey, awaiting the monster to come so he could get the sample.

But he didn't.

Because no matter how much Hunk was required to go on with his mission –he only had ten minutes now, come to think- he wanted his answer. He wanted it now.

"Answer me, civilian."

She gave him an odd look. She said, "Call me by my name first."

A beat. They both stared each other down.

"Redfield, then."

Claire Redfield smiled gently, taking care not to look too victorious.

She said, "That's good enough."

The child relaxed in Hunk's grip. He couldn't fathom how much the situation had just slipped from his iron grasp to Claire's hands. Everything was going awry, he wanted to wrest control from the woman, but the damnable notion of 'friends' pestered him to the point of becoming a mental itch- drilling into the core of his mind. He lowered his firearm- but not completely.

If Claire tried anything, anything at all, he wouldn't hesitate then and there to kill her and leave her for the birds.

"A friend is someone you need," She said. "Do you ever need anyone?"

"No."

"Do you ever want to help someone?" Claire asked.

Hunk paused.

"If it's my orders, yes."

"What if it's not?"

"Then no."

"And secrets? Do you ever… let someone know your secrets?"

Stark indignation ran through him. "Of course not."

Claire was flabbergasted. "You're telling me you don't even know what 'friend' means?"

"I am aware of the overall definition," Hunk said. "It's the fact that they exist at all that eludes me."

"Why?"

Hunk could feel Sherry stirring in his grip. He checked his watch. Only five, and the mission.

But he had time.

_He had time._

"I see no need for 'friends', or anything of the sort. The concept sounds like a merely ridiculous trifle, one to be done away with."

As if punctuating the statement, a loud bellowing roar shrieked through the room, much closer this time. Hunk looked towards the direction of the roar. Friends. What in hell could 'friends' of any sort do for him against that thing? Other than running away, or worse yet, getting in his way?

He looked back at Claire, who surely wouldn't provide the answer. And since she wouldn't provide any suitable answer, what good would she be to him? As a second roar came rumbling through the halls again, Hunk's trigger finger twitched.

* * *

**Notes:** I always loved playing as Hunk in RE2. I found it even more interesting that, unless one of them was a zombie cavader groaning your way, he never glanced at the bodies of the Umbrella team when he rushed past them, unlike Leon and Claire. 

Hardcore.

Right, then. I absolutely hated the Resident Evil comic books (Unless I was drunk, then I found them to be great sources for story ideas), but one story had a special place in my heart, conveniently titled "Special Delivery". The two Umbrella helicopter pilots, jaded and sarcastic, constantly make sardonic comments as they drop canister and canister of bioengineered death machines to coordinates that their superiors supply them with. I love these guys!

Hence, their cameo appearances in the beginning,when they razz Hunk without remorse, as they surely would if they were ever called in as one of Hunk's rides.

Don't forget to review.

-Jeremy (Ronald)


	6. Always You

**

* * *

6. Always You

* * *

**

It was the Birkin creature again searching for its prey, clutched in Hunk's arms. Both girls darted their heads toward the roar. The agent quickly backtracked in his mind and mentally checked the blueprints that he found on the way here… the stairs to the helipad was right around the corner through the next door. Claire looked at him and he stared back. She desperately reached out for Sherry, the girl reacting in kind, but the agent held her tight and waited for the monster. The sample was here- fresh for the taking.

"What are you doing! Let her go."

He didn't bother to answer. He cocked his head towards the doorway and heard the booming, thudding steps echoing just past the hall. Quickly formulating up a plan, he decided on one that could be executed quickly. He would shove the girl towards the monster, and when it made a strike, he would plug it in the eye-shoulder, following up with a flash bang. It would give him enough time to extract a blood sample and retreat safely. What would happen to the girl and the civilian, he didn't know. He couldn't afford the time to think for them too.

"The G-Virus," he said. He half-heartedly cursed himself for saying it out loud and getting excited over having the mission objective so close at hand, but adrenaline was already flowing into his system, ready to be utilized at the right time.

Quickly assessing the situation, Hunk knew he would have to move very fast if he wanted to get the sample and make it to the evac chopper on time. The Umbrella agent stalked forward, finding that his movements were impeded by the horrified child trying to pull away.

Claire immediately made for him. Sherry whimpered. Hunk turned to kill Claire where she stood. And Sherry screamed, "Stop!"

Somewhere in the police station, very, very close, the monster gave back an answering cry. Hunk looked at Sherry, who was clutching a little gold necklace –locket- that he hadn't noticed before. Her eyes seemed to shimmer with tears and her mouth was pressed in a straight line. Claire watched on as Sherry started her own negotiations with the Umbrella agent.

"I don't know what a G-Virus is," Sherry said. Her voice was soft, yet fearless. "But I think this is what you're looking for?"

She removed her locket.

Hunk took it. He looked it over.

"Mom told me to watch over that. She said there's something important inside that people are trying to get." Sherry glanced towards Claire, answered with a nod. "Maybe that's what you need."

Opening it, Hunk thumbed the family picture inside, feeling an unnatural cold bump beneath. He lifted up the picture and was rewarded with the sight of something he had been searching for this whole time. A tiny capsule vial with flowing purple-greenish liquid. In the middle was a small sticker that held only one letter.

'**G**'.

His grip lost slack and Sherry stepped backwards. When he didn't react, she ran back to Claire, who grasped her tight in a great big hug. For a moment, both girls were lost to Hunk as he pocketed his reward. Now he had no reason to stay. Three minutes and counting, best to get going. Double-time. The girls were still locked in their embrace, the child sobbing in relief.

Strange.

At this angle, in this light, Claire Redfield looked like a mother comforting a child. Hunk looked away. He didn't need to fret about this, this sort of thing was something he would never have. Instead, he reached down and snatched up his radio.

"Base. This is Hunk." He said into the static. "G-Virus sample retrieved. Extracting to heliport now."

The curt reply was: _"Good. Any obstacles?"_

Claire lifted her head, meeting Hunk's shielded eyes.

"No."

"_Good. Base, out."_

"Hunk, out."

He stayed in that position for a while. A horrid rapid pounding and trumpeting shriek broke off their eye contact. The door just ahead of them was slamming against its hinges, dust trickling down from the ceiling. The Umbrella agent started to move back into the shadows towards the helipad; his job was finished. The civilian and the girl were no concern to him anymore. However, for some reason, he stopped and set down a flash-bang grenade near them, making his way up the stairs without looking back.

When he closed the latched helipad door behind him, Hunk allowed himself a brief wonderment of what he had just done. Although it was a mere flash-bang, it was a weapon- his weapon. Why did he waste one on them, when he had no reason for it, no need? When the chopper started to descent, he heard the flash-bang detonate, followed along with rapid gunshots and the violent screaming of the monster. He was already boarding the Umbrella helicopter when the gunfire and the screaming abruptly stopped, shedding him no clue of the victor of the undoubtedly brutal skirmish.

He supposed it didn't matter. It just wasn't his business. He sat ramrod straight on the metal bench in the chopper interior, supported by steel-rod struts. Resting his arms on his knees, the Umbrella agent listened dispassionately as the pilot looked back at him and remarked:

"Always you, Mr. Death."

Hunk deposited his MP5A2 back into the mounted rifle stocks next to his bench. His was the only rifle that constantly managed to keep its place. It settled easily, slipping into the worn wooden black stock with a satisfying click.

The pilot continued with his irritating insults thinly veiled as compliments, "Always, only you survive, Mr. _Death_."

Indeed, the pilot must have deemed it fitting to serve Hunk his usual nickname in that particular mocking tone. Hunk didn't notice, and if he did, he wouldn't care. With a wayward glance towards his discarded utility belt, he looked at the empty pouch that the flash-bang once was pocketed in.

That woman: Claire Redfield. Her 'friend', Sherry Birkin. Redfield's definition of 'friend' was very vague and gave Hunk virtually no answers, at least not the ones he was looking for.

Friends.

Did they exist? Would he ever have any of his own? Would he ever be an important part in someone's life, other than being the ruthless pawn that followed orders obediently like a well-trained police dog, released only when the situation called for it?

Hunk shook his head.

Before solemnly snapping off the latches of his all-too-familiar gas mask and seeing the world outside the chopper in its natural colors as opposed to the usual shades of crimson; scarlet; ruby; burgundy through his lenses that he was more used to, he shook his head in disappointment.

He had only one thing to say to all the thoughts about friends and the possibility of having any. He said, muttering under his breath through the hiss of his gas mask filter:

"Inconceivable."

_Fin

* * *

_

**Notes: **Whew! This is one of the rare times in my entire writing career (if it could be called that) where I've had the satisfaction of typing down that fabled word _'fin'._

Well, I'm finished, and not with a bang, but with a baffled "Inconcievable", to which I humbly apologize, I just _had_ to make Hunk say it. 

No other ending would do. 

Jarhead43, thanks for reading, and thanks for speaking up! When I get the time, I'll be sure to go back and correct that little tiff... however, which submachine guns do you recommend for the tactical invasion and infiltration missions that Umbrella Special Forces troops are so famous for? Particularly, which ones have shotgun attachments?

Everyone else, even those who didn't review, thanks for reading. Writing this thing was terrific fun, and even though I didn't get a lot of feedback on my writing, the ones I did get help me greatly, and for that, I thank you.

Till next story,

-Jeremy (Ronald)


End file.
